The Egoist

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"Ta-ta-ta-ta ad infinitum. You need not tell me you have a design
in all that you do, Willoughby Patterne."

"You smell the autocrat? Yes, he can mould and govern the
creatures about him. His toughest rebel is himself! If you see
Clara ... You wish to see her, I think you said?"

"Her behaviour to Lady Busshe last night was queer."

"If you will. She makes a mouth at porcelain. Toujours la
porcelaine! For me, her pettishness is one of her charms, I
confess it. Ten years younger, I could not have compared them."

"Whom?"

"Laetitia and Clara."

"Sir Willoughby, in any case, to quote you, here we are all upon
the road, and we must act as if events were going to happen; and I
must ask her to help me on the subject of my wedding-present, for
I don't want to have her making mouths at mine, however pretty--
and she does it prettily."

"'Another dedicatory offering to the rogue in me!' she says of
porcelain."

"Then porcelain it shall not be. I mean to consult her; I have
come determined upon a chat with her. I think I understand. But
she produces false impressions on those who don't know you both.
'I shall have that porcelain back,' says Lady Busshe to me, when
we were shaking hands last night: 'I think,' says she, 'it should
have been the Willow Pattern.' And she really said: 'He's in for
being jilted a second time!'"

Sir Willoughby restrained a bound of his body that would have sent
him up some feet into the air. He felt his skull thundered at
within.

"Rather than that it should fan upon her!" ejaculated he,
correcting his resemblance to the high-caste culprit as soon as it
recurred to him.

"But you know Lady Busshe," said Mrs. Mountstuart, genuinely
solicitous to ease the proud man of his pain. She could see
through him to the depth of the skin, which his fencing
sensitiveness vainly attempted to cover as it did the heart of
him. "Lady Busshe is nothing without her flights, fads, and
fancies. She has always insisted that you have an unfortunate
nose. I remember her saying on the day of your majority, it was
the nose of a monarch destined to lose a throne."

"Have I ever offended Lady Busshe?"

"She trumpets you. She carries Lady Culmer with her too, and you
may expect a visit of nods and hints and pots of alabaster. They
worship you: you are the hope of England in their eyes, and no
woman is worthy of you: but they are a pair of fatalists, and if
you begin upon Letty Dale with them, you might as well forbid your
banns. They will be all over the country exclaiming on
predestination and marriages made in heaven."

"Clara and her father!" cried Sir Willoughby.

Dr Middleton and his daughter appeared in the circle of shrubs and
flowers.

"Bring her to me, and save me from the polyglot," said Mrs
Mountstuart, in afright at Dr. Middleton's manner of pouring forth
into the ears of the downcast girl.

The leisure he loved that he might debate with his genius upon any
next step was denied to Willoughby: he had to place his trust in
the skill with which he had sown and prepared Mrs Mountstuart's
understanding to meet the girl--beautiful abhorred that she was!
detested darling! thing to squeeze to death and throw to the dust,
and mourn over!

He had to risk it; and at an hour when Lady Busshe's prognostic
grievously impressed his intense apprehensiveness of nature.

As it happened that Dr. Middleton's notion of a disagreeable duty
in colloquy was to deliver all that he contained, and escape the
listening to a syllable of reply, Willoughby withdrew his daughter
from him opportunely.

"Mrs. Mountstuart wants you, Clara."

"I shall be very happy," Clara replied, and put on a new face. An
imperceptible nervous shrinking was met by another force in her
bosom, that pushed her to advance without a sign of reluctance.
She seemed to glitter.

She was handed to Mrs. Mountstuart.

Dr Middleton laid his hand over Willoughby's shoulder, retiring on
a bow before the great lady of the district. He blew and said: "An
opposition of female instincts to masculine intellect necessarily
creates a corresponding antagonism of intellect to instinct."

"Her answer, sir? Her reasons? Has she named any?"

"The cat," said Dr. Middleton, taking breath for a sentence, "that
humps her back in the figure of the letter H, or a Chinese bridge
has given the dog her answer and her reasons, we may presume: but
he that undertakes to translate them into human speech might
likewise venture to propose an addition to the alphabet and a
continuation of Homer. The one performance would be not more
wonderful than the other. Daughters, Willoughby, daughters! Above
most human peccancies, I do abhor a breach of faith. She will not
be guilty of that. I demand a cheerful fulfilment of a pledge:
and I sigh to think that I cannot count on it without
administering a lecture."

"She will soon be my care, sir."

"She shall be. Why, she is as good as married. She is at the
altar. She is in her house. She is--why, where is she not? She
has entered the sanctuary. She is out of the market. This maenad
shriek for freedom would happily entitle her to the Republican cap
--the Phrygian--in a revolutionary Parisian procession. To me it
has no meaning; and but that I cannot credit child of mine with
mania, I should be in trepidation of her wits."

Sir Willoughby's livelier fears were pacified by the information
that Clara had simply emitted a cry. Clara had once or twice given
him cause for starting and considering whether to think of her sex
differently or condemningly of her, yet he could not deem her
capable of fully unbosoming herself even to him, and under
excitement. His idea of the cowardice of girls combined with his
ideal of a waxwork sex to persuade him that though they are often
(he had experienced it) wantonly desperate in their acts, their
tongues are curbed by rosy prudency. And this was in his favour.
For if she proved speechless and stupid with Mrs. Mountstuart, the
lady would turn her over, and beat her flat, beat her angular, in
fine, turn her to any shape, despising her, and cordially believe
him to be the model gentleman of Christendom. She would fill in
the outlines he had sketched to her of a picture that he had small
pride in by comparison with his early vision of a fortune-favoured,
triumphing squire, whose career is like the sun's, intelligibly
lordly to all comprehensions. Not like your model gentleman, that
has to be expounded--a thing for abstract esteem! However, it
was the choice left to him. And an alternative was enfolded in
that. Mrs. Mountstuart's model gentleman could marry either one of
two women, throwing the other overboard. He was bound to marry: he
was bound to take to himself one of them: and whichever one he
selected would cast a lustre on his reputation. At least she
would rescue him from the claws of Lady Busshe, and her owl's
hoot of "Willow Pattern", and her hag's shriek of "twice jilted".
That flying infant Willoughby--his unprotected little incorporeal
omnipresent Self (not thought of so much as passionately felt for)
--would not be scoffed at as the luckless with women. A fall
indeed from his original conception of his name of fame abroad!
But Willoughby had the high consolation of knowing that others
have fallen lower. There is the fate of the devils to comfort us,
if we are driven hard. "For one of your pangs another bosom is
racked by ten", we read in the solacing Book.

With all these nice calculations at work, Willoughby stood above
himself, contemplating his active machinery, which he could partly
criticize but could not stop, in a singular wonderment at the aims
and schemes and tremours of one who was handsome, manly,
acceptable in the world's eyes: and had he not loved himself most
heartily he would have been divided to the extent of repudiating
that urgent and excited half of his being, whose motions appeared
as those of a body of insects perpetually erecting and repairing a
structure of extraordinary pettiness. He loved himself too
seriously to dwell on the division for more than a minute or so.
But having seen it, and for the first time, as he believed, his
passion for the woman causing it became surcharged with
bitterness, atrabiliar.

A glance behind him, as he walked away with Dr. Middleton, showed
Clara, cunning creature that she was, airily executing her
malicious graces in the preliminary courtesies with Mrs.
Mountstuart.

CHAPTER XXXV

Miss Middleton and Mrs. Mountstuart

"Sit beside me, fair Middleton," said the great lady.

"Gladly," said Clara, bowing to her title.

"I want to sound you, my dear."

Clara presented an open countenance with a dim interrogation on
the forehead. "Yes?" she said, submissively.

"You were one of my bright faces last night. I was in love with
you. Delicate vessels ring sweetly to a finger-nail, and if the
wit is true, you answer to it; that I can see, and that is what I
like. Most of the people one has at a table are drums. A
ruba-dub-dub on them is the only way to get a sound. When they can
be persuaded to do it upon one another, they call it
conversation."

"Colonel De Craye was very funny."

"Funny, and witty too."

"But never spiteful."

"These Irish or half Irishmen are my taste. If they're not
politicians, mind; I mean Irish gentlemen. I will never have
another dinner-party without one. Our men's tempers are uncertain.
You can't get them to forget themselves. And when the wine is in
them the nature comes out, and they must be buffetting, and
up start politics, and good-bye to harmony! My husband, I am sorry
to say, was one of those who have a long account of ruined dinners
against them. I have seen him and his friends red as the roast and
white as the boiled with wrath on a popular topic they had excited
themselves over, intrinsically not worth a snap of the fingers. In
London!" exclaimed Mrs. Mountstuart, to aggravate the charge
against her lord in the Shades. "But town or country, the table
should be sacred. I have heard women say it is a plot on the side
of the men to teach us our littleness. I don't believe they have a
plot. It would be to compliment them on a talent. I believe they
fall upon one another blindly, simply because they are full;
which is, we are told, the preparation for the fighting Englishman.
They cannot eat and keep a truce. Did you notice that dreadful Mr.
Capes?"

"The gentleman who frequently contradicted papa? But Colonel De
Craye was good enough to relieve us."

"How, my dear?"

"You did not hear him? He took advantage of an interval when Mr.
Capes was breathing after a paean to his friend, the Governor--I
think--of one of the presidencies, to say to the lady beside him:
'He was a wonderful administrator and great logician; he married
an Anglo-Indian widow, and soon after published a pamphlet in
favour of Suttee.'"

"And what did the lady say?"

"She said: 'Oh.'"

"Hark at her! And was it heard?"

"Mr. Capes granted the widow, but declared he had never seen the
pamphlet in favour of Suttee, and disbelieved in it. He insisted
that it was to be named Sati. He was vehement."

"Now I do remember:--which must have delighted the colonel. And
Mr. Capes retired from the front upon a repetition of 'in toto, in
toto'. As if 'in toto' were the language of a dinner-table! But
what will ever teach these men? Must we import Frenchmen to give
them an example in the art of conversation, as their grandfathers
brought over marquises to instruct them in salads? And our young
men too! Women have to take to the hunting-field to be able to
talk with them, and be on a par with their grooms. Now, there was
Willoughby Patterne, a prince among them formerly. Now, did you
observe him last night? did you notice how, instead of conversing,
instead of assisting me--as he was bound to do doubly owing to
the defection of Vernon Whitford: a thing I don't yet comprehend--
there he sat sharpening his lower lip for cutting remarks. And at
my best man! at Colonel De Craye! If he had attacked Mr. Capes,
with his Governor of Bomby, as the man pronounces it, or Colonel
Wildjohn and his Protestant Church in Danger, or Sir Wilson
Pettifer harping on his Monarchical Republic, or any other! No, he
preferred to be sarcastic upon friend Horace, and he had the worst
of it. Sarcasm is so silly! What is the gain if he has been smart?
People forget the epigram and remember the other's good temper. On
that field, my dear, you must make up your mind to be beaten by
'friend Horace'. I have my prejudices and I have my
prepossessions, but I love good temper, and I love wit, and when I
see a man possessed of both, I set my cap at him, and there's my
flat confession, and highly unfeminine it is."

"Not at all!" cried Clara.

"We are one, then."

Clara put up a mouth empty of words: she was quite one with her.
Mrs. Mountstuart pressed her hand. "When one does get intimate
with a dainty rogue!" she said. "You forgive me all that, for I
could vow that Willoughby has betrayed me."

Clara looked soft, kind, bright, in turns, and clouded instantly
when the lady resumed: "A friend of my own sex, and young, and a
close neighbour, is just what I would have prayed for. And I'll
excuse you, my dear, for not being so anxious about the friendship
of an old woman. But I shall be of use to you, you will find. In
the first place, I never tap for secrets. In the second, I keep
them. Thirdly, I have some power. And fourth, every young married
woman has need of a friend like me. Yes, and Lady Patterne heading
all the county will be the stronger for my backing. You don't look
so mighty well pleased, my dear. Speak out."

"Dear Mrs. Mountstuart!"

"I tell you, I am very fond of Willoughby, but I saw the faults of
the boy and see the man's. He has the pride of a king, and it's a
pity if you offend it. He is prodigal in generosity, but he can't
forgive. As to his own errors, you must be blind to them as a
Saint. The secret of him is, that he is one of those excessively
civilized creatures who aim at perfection: and I think he ought to
be supported in his conceit of having attained it; for the more
men of that class, the greater our influence. He excels in manly
sports, because he won't be excelled in anything, but as men don't
comprehend his fineness, he comes to us; and his wife must manage
him by that key. You look down at the idea of managing. It has to
be done. One thing you may be assured of, he will be proud of
you. His wife won't be very much enamoured of herself if she is
not the happiest woman in the world. You will have the best
horses, the best dresses, the finest jewels in England; and an
incomparable cook. The house will be changed the moment you enter
it as Lady Patterne. And, my dear, just where he is, with all his
graces, deficient of attraction, yours will tell. The sort of
Othello he would make, or Leontes, I don't know, and none of us
ever needs to know. My impression is, that if even a shadow of a
suspicion flitted across him, he is a sort of man to double-dye
himself in guilt by way of vengeance in anticipation of an
imagined offence. Not uncommon with men. I have heard strange
stories of them: and so will you in your time to come, but not
from me. No young woman shall ever be the sourer for having been
my friend. One word of advice now we are on the topic: never play
at counter-strokes with him. He will be certain to out-stroke you,
and you will be driven further than you meant to go. They say we
beat men at that game; and so we do, at the cost of beating
ourselves. And if once we are started, it is a race-course ending
on a precipice--over goes the winner. We must be moderately
slavish to keep our place; which is given us in appearance; but
appearances make up a remarkably large part of life, and far the
most comfortable, so long as we are discreet at the right moment.
He is a man whose pride, when hurt, would run his wife to
perdition to solace it. If he married a troublesome widow, his
pamphlet on Suttee would be out within the year. Vernon Whitford
would receive instructions about it the first frosty moon. You
like Miss Dale?"

"I think I like her better than she likes me," said Clara.

"Have you never warmed together?"

"I have tried it. She is not one bit to blame. I can see how it is
that she misunderstands me: or justly condemns me, perhaps I
should say."

"The hero of two women must die and be wept over in common before
they can appreciate one another. You are not cold?"

"No."

"You shuddered, my dear."

"Did l?"

"I do sometimes. Feet will be walking over ones grave, wherever it
lies. Be sure of this: Willoughby Patterne is a man of
unimpeachable honour."

"I do not doubt it."

"He means to be devoted to you. He has been accustomed to have
women hanging around him like votive offerings."

"I ...!"

"You cannot: of course not: any one could see that at a glance.
You are all the sweeter to me for not being tame. Marriage cures
a multitude of indispositions."

"Oh! Mrs. Mountstuart, will you listen to me?"

"Presently. Don't threaten me with confidences. Eloquence is a
terrible thing in woman. I suspect, my dear, that we both know as
much as could be spoken."

"You hardly suspect the truth, I fear."

"Let me tell you one thing about jealous men--when they are not
blackamoors married to disobedient daughters. I speak of our civil
creature of the drawing-rooms: and lovers, mind, not husbands: two
distinct species, married or not:--they're rarely given to
jealousy unless they are flighty themselves. The jealousy fixes
them. They have only to imagine that we are for some fun likewise
and they grow as deferential as my footman, as harmless as the
sportsman whose gun has burst. Ah! my fair Middleton, am I
pretending to teach you? You have read him his lesson, and my
table suffered for it last night, but I bear no rancour."

"You bewilder me, Mrs. Mountstuart."

"Not if I tell you that you have driven the poor man to try
whether it would be possible for him to give you up."

"I have?"

"Well, and you are successful."

"I am?"

"Jump, my dear!"

"He will?"

"When men love stale instead of fresh, withered better than
blooming, excellence in the abstract rather than the palpable.
With their idle prate of feminine intellect, and a grotto nymph,
and a mother of Gracchi! Why, he must think me dazed with
admiration of him to talk to me! One listens, you know. And he is
one of the men who cast a kind of physical spell on you while he
has you by the ear, until you begin to think of it by talking to
somebody else. I suppose there are clever people who do see deep
into the breast while dialogue is in progress. One reads of them.
No, my dear, you have very cleverly managed to show him that it
isn't at all possible: he can't. And the real cause for alarm, in
my humble opinion, is lest your amiable foil should have been a
trifle, as he would say, deceived, too much in earnest, led too
far. One may reprove him for not being wiser, but men won't learn
without groaning that they are simply weapons taken up to be put
down when done with. Leave it to me to compose him.--Willoughby
can't give you up. I'm certain he has tried; his pride has been
horridly wounded. You were shrewd, and he has had his lesson. If
these little rufflings don't come before marriage they come after;
so it's not time lost; and it's good to be able to look back on
them. You are very white, my child."

"Can you, Mrs. Mountstuart, can you think I would be so
heartlessly treacherous?"

"Be honest, fair Middleton, and answer me: Can you say you had not
a corner of an idea of producing an effect on Willoughby?"

Clara checked the instinct of her tongue to defend her reddening
cheeks, with a sense that she was disintegrating and crumbling,
but she wanted this lady for a friend, and she had to submit to
the conditions, and be red and silent.

Mrs. Mountstuart examined her leisurely.

"That will do. Conscience blushes. One knows it by the
conflagration. Don't be hard on yourself.. there you are in the
other extreme. That blush of yours would count with me against any
quantity of evidence--all the Crooklyns in the kingdom. You lost
your purse."

"I discovered that it was lost this morning."

"Flitch has been here with it. Willoughby has it. You will ask him
for it; he will demand payment: you will be a couple of yards"
length or so of cramoisy: and there ends the episode, nobody
killed, only a poor man melancholy-wounded, and I must offer him
my hand to mend him, vowing to prove to him that Suttee was
properly abolished. Well, and now to business. I said I wanted to
sound you. You have been overdone with porcelain. Poor Lady Busshe
is in despair at your disappointment. Now, I mean my
wedding-present to be to your taste."

"Madam!"

"Who is the madam you are imploring?"

"Dear Mrs. Mountstuart!"

"Well?"

"I shall fall in your esteem. Perhaps you will help me. No one
else can. I am a prisoner: I am compelled to continue this
imposture. Oh, I shun speaking much: you object to it and I
dislike it: but I must endeavour to explain to you that I am
unworthy of the position you think a proud one."

"Tut-tut; we are all unworthy, cross our arms, bow our heads; and
accept the honours. Are you playing humble handmaid? What an old
organ-tune that is! Well? Give me reasons."

"I do not wish to marry."

"He's the great match of the county!"

"I cannot marry him."

"Why, you are at the church door with him! Cannot marry him?"

"It does not bind me."

"The church door is as binding as the altar to an honourable girl.
What have you been about? Since I am in for confidences, half ones
won't do. We must have honourable young women as well as men of
honour. You can't imagine he is to be thrown over now, at this
hour? What have you against him? come!"

"I have found that I do not . .

"What?"

"Love him."

Mrs. Mountstuart grimaced transiently. "That is no answer. The
cause!" she said. "What has he done?

"Nothing."

"And when did you discover this nothing?"

"By degrees: unknown to myself; suddenly."

"Suddenly and by degrees? I suppose it's useless to ask for a
head. But if all this is true, you ought not to be here."

"I wish to go; I am unable."

"Have you had a scene together?"

"I have expressed my wish."

"In roundabout?--girl's English?"

"Quite clearly. oh, very clearly."

"Have you spoken to your father?"

"I have."

"And what does Dr. Middleton say?"

"It is incredible to him."

"To me too! I can understand little differences, little whims,
caprices: we don't settle into harness for a tap on the shoulder
as a man becomes a knight: but to break and bounce away from an
unhappy gentleman at the church door is either madness or it's one
of the things without a name. You think you are quite sure of
yourself?"

"I am so sure. that I look back with regret on the time when I
was not."

"But you were in love with him."

"I was mistaken."

"No love?"

"I have none to give.

"Dear me!--Yes, yes, but that tone of sorrowful conviction is
often a trick, it's not new: and I know that assumption of plain
sense to pass off a monstrosity." Mrs. Mountstuart struck her lap.
"Soh! but I've had to rack my brain for it: feminine disgust? You
have been hearing imputations of his past life? moral character?
No? Circumstances might make him behave unkindly, not
unhandsomely: and we have no claim over a man's past, or it's too
late to assert it. What is the case?"

"We are quite divided."

"Nothing in the way of ... nothing green-eyed?"

"Far from that!"

"Then name it."

"We disagree."

"Many a very good agreement is founded on disagreeing. It's to be
regretted that you are not portionless. If you had been, you would
have made very little of disagreeing. You are just as much bound
in honour as if you had the ring on your finger."

"In honour! But I appeal to his, I am no wife for him."

"But if he insists, you consent?"

"I appeal to reason. Is it, madam . . ."

"But, I say, if he insists, you consent?"

"He will insist upon his own misery as well as mine."

Mrs. Mountstuart rocked herself "My poor Sir Willoughby! What a
fate!--And I took you for a clever girl! Why, I have been
admiring your management of him! And here am I bound to take a
lesson from Lady Busshe. My dear good Middleton, don't let it be
said that Lady Busshe saw deeper than I! I put some little vanity
in it, I own: I won't conceal it. She declares that when she sent
her present--I don't believe her--she had a premonition that it
would come back. Surely you won't justify the extravagances of a
woman without common reverence:--for anatomize him as we please
to ourselves, he is a splendid man (and I did it chiefly to
encourage and come at you). We don't often behold such a
lordly-looking man: so conversable too when he feels at home; a
picture of an English gentleman! The very man we want married for
our neighbourhood! A woman who can openly talk of expecting him to
be twice jilted! You shrink. It is repulsive. It would be
incomprehensible: except, of course, to Lady Busshe, who rushed to
one of her violent conclusions, and became a prophetess. Conceive
a woman's imagining it could happen twice to the same man! I am
not sure she did not send the identical present that arrived and
returned once before: you know, the Durham engagement. She told
me last night she had it back. I watched her listening very
suspiciously to Professor Crooklyn. My dear, it is her passion to
foretell disasters--her passion! And when they are confirmed, she
triumphs, of course. We shall have her domineering over us with
sapient nods at every trifle occurring. The county will be
unendurable. Unsay it, my Middleton! And don't answer like an
oracle because I do all the talking. Pour out to me. You'll soon
come to a stop and find the want of reason in the want of words. I
assure you that's true. Let me have a good gaze at you. No," said
Mrs. Mountstuart, after posturing herself to peruse Clara's
features, "brains you have; one can see it by the nose and the
mouth. I could vow you are the girl I thought you; you have your
wits on tiptoe. How of the heart?"